


a modern woman

by ElisAttack



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, And there's so much, Artist Original Percival Graves, Credence is a Seamstress, Edwardian Period, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Gender or Sex Swap, Lesbian Sex, Literally Everyone is Now a Lady, Paris (City), Past Child Abuse, Percival is Both Natalie Clifford Barney and Romaine Brookes, Sapphic Socialites of the Edwardian Era AU, la belle époque
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 05:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11571747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: The woman is tall, though not taller than her.  Her hair is trimmed in the style popular among men, and a glass of whiskey glows in her gloved hand.  As she drinks from it, tipping it back, her throat bobs.  Her suit is of the finest pile-on-pile velvet, patterns of swirling botanicals enveloping her body.  Credence adores stitching velvet, and she wishes more customers would request it, but silk is in season.The woman’s eyes lock with Credence’s, and a slow smile spreads across her face.Or the one where Credence is a seamstress working in Paris, and Graves is a wealthy socialite with a love of art, and an eye for beauty.





	a modern woman

**Author's Note:**

> This is the most self-indulgent thing I have ever shared on this website. So pull your sapphic stockings up and clip on your garters, cause things are about to get lesbionic.
> 
> [frutimemes over on tumblr made some gorgeous art, and you should definitely check it out](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/163433755922/frutimemes-i-read-a-modern-woman-and-my-life)

Her grandmother left her the shop.  The needles, the thread, the machines; she loves them more than anything.  She used to visit in the summers of her youth, before her mother decided that Paris had corrupted her—according to Mary Lou, the Lord couldn’t have made her the way she is.

Credence would sit beneath the dress mannequins, stacking thimbles and bobbins until her grandmother needed them.  Her sisters were indifferent, but Credence adored the shelved bolts of fabric, organized in a method only her grandmother knew.  She adored the squeaky, wooden floors—countless pins scattered beneath them, fallen through the popped out knots and countless cracks.

Her grandmother’s hands had been wizened, skin stretched tight over arthritic knuckles, but still she worked.  She didn’t need to, her third husband—an undertaker—had left her a sizable fortune upon his death.  But, idleness would make her unhappy, and she could not bear to miss even a day of work.

She died with a dress in her hands.  Credence had finished it, giving it to the customer that commissioned it with tears in her eyes.  Then she sat down in her rickety, old chair, and never left.

Her mother had disinherited her long before she finally gave up the ghost, left her nothing but the scars on her hands and back.  Her grandmother had given her freedom.

She’s eight years older than Chastity, and at thirty, she is a spinster—no husband and no man to call her lover.

Her grandmother married her first husband at fifteen—her parent’s choice—though he lived only a few months before he was thrown from a cart, a work accident.  She purchased the shop from his life insurance payout, and married her second husband for love.  Thankfully, Credence’s grandfather lasted a good forty years.  The family of three subsisted themselves on her grandmother’s work, until Mary Lou, disillusioned with the Paris life, ran off to the countryside with a Lutheran preacher.

When Chastity had been twelve, Modesty only eight, a cut across her cheek—the first of many that would come, Credence knew, her back was proof alone—they left their mother in the dead of night, and journeyed back to Paris.  It had been a long and fraught few days, but their grandmother had welcomed them back with open arms, even as their grandfather lay on his deathbed.

Her sisters no longer depend on her, as they did in their youth.  She used to take their punishments, doled out by Mary Lou’s switch, knowing that the one their mother truly wanted to hurt was Credence.

Modesty resides high in the mountains, where the air is fresh and clean year round.

She cares and nurtures the wealthy sick back to life, but more often than not, until the consumption takes them away.  Credence fears for her, but she makes good money and loves her life more than she did while living in Paris.  In her letters, she tells stories of rich, doomed men passing and leaving their fortunes to her—the kindly, beautiful woman who cared for them in their lowest time.  All in the stead of their undeserving children.

Credence absorbs her tales of scandalous affairs, and moments stolen away in corners.  The men that love her, and then leave her, while she carries on.  Her sister is a modern woman, and Credence is thankful to have raised her right, despite their mother’s efforts.

Chastity met and married a rich railroad heir—to the contention of his family.  Her letters tell tales of bursting American cities, full of light, brighter than Paris could ever be.  Credence suspects she must be exaggerating, for no city could be brighter than Paris.

Chastity sends her catalogues of America’s fashions.  Bright clothing, and the beautiful women wearing them, sending shivers down her spine.

Credence could never marry a man, nor does she need to.  She supports herself through her craft, and the women in her life give her all the company she could ever need.

Love, though.  She wishes she could have that too.

The bell rings, and Credence looks up from her stitching.  Queenie Goldstein leans through the door, a smile on her pink lips.  She’s Credence’s most faithful client, and her patronship accounts for much of her revenue.  Many of Credence’s commissions were referred by her.  Aside from the monetary aspect, Credence counts Queenie among her few friends.

“Honey,”  she says, eyes widening and lips pouting as she flounces over, silk taffeta trailing after her.  She’s about to ask for a favour, Credence just knows.

“Queenie?”  Credence asks warily, sticking her needle into a pincushion, so as not to lose it.

“I hate to ask this of you, but I have no one else to go to.”  She turns to the side, and Credence gets a glimpse of what she has been holding behind her back.  A small bolt of velvet, the colour of a blueberry, is clutched nervously in her hands.  “Could you perhaps make me a dress...”

Credence’s brows dip.  She’s confused, why would Queenie be nervous about asking for that?

“...for you?”

Credence frowns, she already doesn’t like where this is going.

***

She doesn’t know how Queenie managed to drag her into this mess.

It started with a bolt of blueberry velvet and ended with an invitation addressed to Queenie, plus one.  Credence being the plus one—wearing the dress Queenie commissioned.

She awkwardly holds a flute of champagne in hand, Queenie at her side, chatting up one of her fellow socialites about an opera that Credence is barely paying attention to.  The closest she’s ever come to seeing an opera was when she was a child and her grandmother had her deliver a dress to the Palais Garnier’s costume department.  The interior had been gold and polished marble, and Credence had never seen anything as fine.  Until now.    

She’s here to keep Queenie company while her sister, the mysterious Tina, rests at home, recovering from a horse riding accident.  Credence has never meet Tina, but from what Queenie says about her, she must be a truly unique character.  If only Credence had the courage to wear pants to venture outside as Tina is said to.  But Credence has neither the money or time to afford being detained by the authorities for indecent dress.

“You said your name was Credence?”  Queenie’s friend asks.  “How lovely.  I’m Lady Scamander, but you can just call me Newt.”  The woman offers her hand like Credence is supposed to kiss it.  She thought that was something men did for ladies, not ladies for ladies.  

“Lady Newt,”  Credence stumbles over her words, not expecting to be addressed directly, “It’s lovely to meet you.”  Unknowing of how to proceed, Credence takes her lightly by the fingers, shaking her hand.

Lady Newt smiles.  Unshaken by Credence’s fumbling, her eyes crinkle at the corners.  She looks at her feet, quite bashfully, shuffling them slightly.  “Your dress is lovely.”

“Oh.  Thank you.”  Credence says, surprised.  Compared to all the other ladies in the ballroom, Credence thinks her dress looks rather plain.  She didn’t sew any lacing or ribbon on the sleeves or hemming, as she would have done if she was commissioned.  She simply used what Queenie had given her.

“Of course, the lady wearing the dress is beautiful in compliment,”  Lady Newt says, a blush high on her cheeks, before abruptly whirling away.  Credence stares after her, surprised.  In her letters, Chastity never fails to complain that time spent with society women is nothing but a chore.  She calls socialites rude, and spoiled, but Lady Newt is none of those things.

Credence wonders if impoliteness is just an American phenomenon.

“Didn’t I tell you,”  Queenie says, delighting at Credence’s startled expression,  “You’d be the belle of the ball.”

***

She wanders through the rooms, feeling the heaviness of eyes on her wherever she goes.  Queenie insists the women are in awe of how lovely she looks, but Credence cannot help but worry.  Her dress is obviously the least beautiful in a roomful of lace and silk.  They must know that she doesn’t belong.  Her bosom is not as pigeon-breasted as others, and her fingers have never been soft.  She hides her hands behind gloves, and pretends that the cut of her dress is high at the back for style alone.

Queenie has disappeared.  The last time Credence saw her, she had spotted a Lady Kowalski, and dashed after her, leaving Credence in the dust.  She doesn’t mind, since it means she no longer has to make small talk with Queenie’s friends.

Instead, she admires the paintings adorning the corridor walls.  She recognizes a few of the faces as customers and Queenie’s friends.

They’re portrayed as characters from mythology and romantic tales.  The women are laid out, sometimes even draped over furniture in ways that would have made her mother tear out her hair in disgust.  Credence admires the brush strokes that form expression and feeling from simple paint.  One artist to another.

“Do you like them?”  A woman asks, and Credence turns around.

She is tall, though not taller than Credence.  Her hair is trimmed in the style popular among men.  A glass of whiskey glows in her gloved hand.  As she drinks from it, tipping it back, her throat bobs.  Her suit is of the finest pile-on-pile velvet, patterns of swirling botanicals enveloping her body.  Credence adores stitching velvet, she wishes more customers would request it, but silk is in season.

The woman’s eyes lock with Credence’s, and a slow smile spreads across her face.

“Well, hello there.”

Credence smiles and nods politely.  “I do.”

“You do what?”  The woman asks, seemingly distracted.  Her gaze never leaves Credence as she leans against the wall beside the painting.  She looks hungry, not for food, no.  For something else entirely.

Credence is perhaps just as hungry.

“I like the paintings.”  Credence gestures to one of a woman wearing a powdered grey wig, grape leaves woven in her hair, a white toga slipping off one shoulder to reveal a perfectly formed breast.  She blushes horribly when the woman smirks.  “Not just this one, all of them.”

“Thank you,”  the woman smiles, looking at Credence from the corner of her eye.  Her heart catches in her throat, and Credence feels like she can barely breath.  The first time she had ever felt like this was when she was barely twelve.  She had seem the miller’s daughter wearing trousers and a blouse, helping her father load bags of flour into a cart.  Her mother had seen her staring, and had boxed Credence across the ears, but her infatuations had only gotten worse from there.

She knows she shouldn’t feel like this around women, but she cannot help it, and she cannot look away.

“Are they yours?”  Credence asks, breathlessly.

“You could say that.”  The woman bites her bottom lip, barely holding back a grin.  “I painted them.”

Credence looks at the woman, and her mouth opens slightly, surprised.  The woman is lovely, and impeccably dressed.  She looks nothing like the set painters she had seen at the Palais Garnier, with their paint streaked faces and clothes dark with sweat.

“Would you like to see my studio?”  The woman asks, putting down her empty glass on a nearby table, offering her hand much like Lady Newt had.  Instead of shaking it, Credence slides her gloved hand into the woman’s.  She wonders if she can feel the scars through her leather, and Credence’s crocheted gloves.

“I’d love that,”  Credence says, and the woman squeezes her hand.

“It’s out of the main building, in the gardens,”  the woman explains,  “But one thing, before we go.”

“Yes?”  Credence eyes her expectantly.

“Would you do me the honour of telling me your name, fair maiden?”  The woman asks kindly.

“Credence,”  she clutches her other hand in the fall of her dress, nervously worrying at the soft fabric.

“Credence,”  the woman tries her name on her tongue, and she finds that she likes how it sounds coming from such fine lips,  “It means to believe, doesn’t it?”

“To believe something so ardently, you trust that it must be true,”  she confirms.  Her mother gave her that name, but over the years—ever since she ran away from her overbearing hand—Credence has made it her own.  “And yours is?”

She smiles at Credence, and leads her down the corridors to a set of French doors, opening to a dark backyard.  “I’m Lady Graves, but you, Credence…  You may call me Percy.”

The night is alight with the chirping of crickets as Percy holds her hand, walking her through the gardens.  The grass feels cold and damp beneath her simple slippers, but Percy’s hand is warm.  She feels so happy, like she’s in the midst of a dream.  The moon shines high above them, and a series of flaming torches guide them to a folly.

Pillars grace the front of the folly, and as Credence walks up the few steps, she wonders if this is the place she will finally be kissed.  She may be inexperienced, but she is not unintelligent.  She can read the desire in Percy’s eyes plain as day.

“Here we are.”  Percy sweeps aside gauzy white curtains to reveal a small room illuminated by candlelight.  The marble walls are lined with canvases and crates, furniture she recognizes from Percy’s paintings, as well as a couple of easels in different sizes.  The studio is organized and well kept, and everything seems to belong in its rightful place.  It reminds Credence of her own shop.

Percy drops her hand as she wanders in, peering down at half finished canvases, underpaintings of grey revealing images of women smiling coyly.  Were they too seduced by Lady Graves in her folly?

Percy sits with her legs crossed on a low recamier, placed in the center of the room.  An easel stands nearby, and Credence goes to inspect Percy’s most recent painting.  She finds an outline of just the recamier, no one sitting upon it.  She looks back to Percy, and finds her leaning back, her hands braced behind her, watching Credence’s every move.

“You could paint a self-portrait,”  Credence says, walking over and taking a seat beside Percy.

Percy shakes her head, dark eyes glowing warm in candlelight.  “I did enough of that in my youth.”

“I would love a painting of you,”  Credence says, and an amused grin slides on Percy’s face.  Blushing, Credence corrects herself.  “Not to have, of course, but I’d love for it to exist.”

“With my hair, silver like this, I think not,”  Percy jokes, touching the sweep of her hair self consciously.  Credence reaches over and runs a finger over a strand come loose from the elegant styling.

“I think even more so,”  she says, and leans closer to whisper in Percy’s ear, finger dropping and sliding along her neck,  “You’re a very handsome woman.  I appreciate you in the flesh, I think anyone would appreciate you immortalized in paint.”

Percy chuckles lowly, leaning back so the tip of her nose trails along her cheek.  She studies Credence’s face.  “I brought you here to seduce you, but here you are, seducing me.”

Credence shrugs, even as she feels herself flush.  “So it is working then?”

“Oh yes,”  Percy says, sliding her fingers into Credence’s carefully pinned hair.  Her face is so close, Percy’s breath ghosts along her cheek.  “It is most certainly working.”

Credence’s hands are steady as she places them on the sides of Percy’s face, tilting her where she wants her.  Her breathing is anything but steady.

The kiss she presses against Percy’s lips is chaste, delicate, but inexperienced.  She wonders if Percy can tell.  If she does, she doesn’t seem to mind one bit.  Percy closes her eyes, even as Credence’s remain open.  Her fingers tighten ever so slightly in Credence’s hair, not enough to hurt, but enough so she knows they’re there.  Lips sliding as Percy takes control, her jaw moves under Credence’s hands.  Her first kiss suddenly tastes of expensive whiskey as Percy licks at her bottom lip.

“Was that alright?”  Credence whispers against Percy’s mouth.

Percy opens her dark eyes, gazing right into Credence’s.  They’re warm and gentle, and crinkle at the corners, it makes Credence want to kiss her again.

“You’re perfect,”  she drawls lazily, blinking as she leans in again.  The kiss, this time, is deeper.  Credence gasps as she finds herself pulled into Percy’s lap, an arm wrapped around her bottom, the other still tangled in her hair.  She must look a mess by now.  Her mouth feels red and swollen, and she knows hairpins are scattered everywhere.  Tendrils of her long, dark hair tickle the back of her neck as Percy sweeps them away, pressing kisses from her lips, down her chin, then finally down her throat.  She stops at the cradle between her collarbones.  “Is this alright?”  She asks, lips tickling her skin.

“Yes…  please don’t stop,”  Credence murmurs, now clutching Percy’s suit lapels, crushing the velvet beneath her hands,  “I want you.”

“How do you want me?”  Percy asks in between kisses to her neck.  She comes close to her breasts, the tops displayed in a sweeping cut, but wanders off.  Credence wants to push her back.  She moves up, looking straight at Credence.  Rubbing her hand on Credence’s thigh, soothing, Percy's voice emerges hoarse as she says,  “Tell me what you want from me, and I will give it to you.”

“I don’t know what I want,”  Credence says, but she does, she knows very well what she wants, but she doesn’t know how to go about asking Percy for it.

Percy hums.  “How about…”  She presses her lips to Credence’s for a brief second before pulling back.  “...I try something…”  Another kiss.  “...And if you don’t like it…”  An even longer kiss.  “...You will let me know?”

Credence sighs at the teasing and tugs Percy closer.  She falls against the recamier’s rest, and Percy follows.  “Yes,”  she murmurs against her mouth, drawing her in.    

She’s not drunk.  She only had a single flute of champagne, but as Percy slips the tip of her now ungloved thumb between Credence’s lips, her head grows light, and she feels as though she had consumed the entire bottle.  Percy’s other hand traces over her bosom, slipping beneath her dress.

“Lady Graves,”  Credence gasps in shock, eyes wide open, as Percy’s hand massages her bare flesh, fingers so sinful.

“My name is Percy,”  she murmurs against the curve of Credence’s ear, breath warm and voice thick with lust.  “Call me that, darling.”

“Percy,”  Credence sighs as the kisses to her throat grow in intensity.  Her thigh slips between Credence’s legs, like a question, begging for more, but the folds of fabric hold her back.  She hisses in frustration, wanting her even closer, but her dress is caught somewhere underneath either one of their knees.

She pushes Percy back, and she goes easily, hand slipping out of her dress as she retreats even further, obviously reading Credence wrong.  “Help me with my dress,”  Credence says in explanation, wanting Percy to help her push up her skirts.  Again, she reads her wrong, because she climbs off the recamier and moves around to her back.

Credence feels fingers slipping down her neck, to the buttons along her spine.  Holding her breath, as her skin is slowly revealed, she is unable to stop her, knowing that it’s best to get it out of way now, lest Percy find out later.  She only hopes her scars don’t disgust Percy enough to stop what they’ve only just begun.

If Percy wants to only see her from the front, Credence can live with that.  Though she wouldn’t know how to begin taking off her gloves, revealing her hands with just as many scars marring her flesh.

Percy gasps, and hands slip off her back.  Credence closes her eyes, stiffly clutching hers to her sides, waiting to be told they can no longer continue—that she has to leave.  Instead, Credence feels Percy press a kiss to the knob of her spine where one of her largest scars mars.  She inhales sharply as Percy undoes the rest of the buttons.  Her dress slips down her shoulders, revealing the top of her back not still hidden by her petticoat.

“Stand up for me, darling,”  Percy requests, and Credence does as she asks, turning around to face her.  She reads nothing even close to disgust in Percy’s gaze, not even a hint of pity.  Instead, all she finds is determination and desire.

Percy pulls Credence’s dress down her body, arms slipping from muslin lined sleeves.  Credence says nothing as her dress and petticoat falls in a puddle at her feet, and she’s left standing in front of this beautiful women in nothing but her underclothes.  Percy kneels at her feet and takes hold of one stocking-clad calf, lifting it, then the other as she untangles the dress from her feet.  She picks it up, and shakes the dust from it, holding it out at arm's length—just looking at it.  Credence clutches her bare arms to her chest as she waits for Percy to say something, anything.

“No wonder Queenie calls you the best darn seamstress in Paris,”  she smiles, and places a gentle kiss against Credence’s slack mouth before walking over to delicately drape the dress over a nearby chair so it doesn’t wrinkle.  Credence's heart races as she watches the respectful way Percy handles her dress—like it’s one of her paintings.

Striding right over to Percy, she wants to kiss her almost desperately.  Percy sees her coming and smiles.  Credence throws her arms over her shoulders as Percy wraps her arms around her waist.  She sighs sweetly as their lips meet.

Credence has never felt this way before, and as Percy’s hand lifts, gripping her elbow, steering them back to the recamier, she realizes she wants to feel like this forever.  Percy slips her gloves off her hands, kissing the scarred flesh.  She slides down Credence’s body, sitting, but when she tries to follow, Percy places a flat palm on her stomach, stopping her.  She’s left standing, while Percy sits.  She wonders what she’s planning until Percy trails her fingers along the bottoms of her frilly drawers, to where her garter clips hold up her stockings.

With a flick they come undone, and her stockings float down her legs, settling near her ankles.  Percy holds her hand, helping her stay balanced as she steps out of her shoes and kicks off the gauzy lisle.  Her toes tremble on the cold floor as Percy’s hand slides up the back of her bare legs, leaving goosebumps in her wake.  Her breath catches in her throat as Percy's hand keeps going, far above the bottom of her drawers.

Percy holds her gaze firmly, and Credence in unable to look away as her hand moves to the very center of her, touching her inner thigh, sweeping through her wet heat.  Credence pulls her bottom lip into her mouth as Percy rubs her thumb in circles.  She gasps and suddenly Percy’s hand is gone.

This time, she read her right.  Percy tugs desperately at the waist of her drawers, pulling them down and out from underneath her corset.  Falling to her feet, they too are kicked away.

She’s left bare from her waist down.  A breeze blows chill over her skin, making the curtains twirl as Percy looks up at her, nothing short of adoration in her gaze.  She squeezes her thighs soothingly.

“How are you feeling, darling?”  She asks, an eyebrow lifted inquiringly.  

Credence stares at her dumbly for a second too long.  Swallowing, her throat bobs and heart races.  Her eyes must be all pupil by now as Percy’s are.

“Good,”  she says,  “But I could be better.”

“Oh?”  Percy asks, teasing.  “And how could you be better?”

“If you kissed me…”  Credence licks her lips, gesturing with her chin.  “...down there.”

Percy’s smile slowly pulls her lips wide.  She looks at Credence, her eyes twinkling in amusement.  Her hands move then, spreading her thighs.  Pressing a quick kiss to the soft flesh of her inner thigh, she says,  “You might want to hold onto something, Credence.”

Credence sighs at the fluttering of lips moving up her thigh, and does as Percy instructed, she places a hand on the recamier’s rest.  Jolting at the quick press of teeth, as Percy’s palms slide to her back, gripping her ass, squeezing and pulling the flesh apart.

The first press of Percy’s lips to her mound has her shaking, digging fingernails into brocade upholstery.  She feels weak at the knees in anticipation, and that’s when Percy slides off the recamier, going to her knees.  That beautiful velvet touches the dusty floor, all for her.  Percy holds her firm, keeping her from stepping too far back.  Credence lifts her hand from the recamier and tangles it in the neat sweep of Percy’s hair, mussing it terribly.  Credence figures Percy doesn’t mind, going by the way she looks up from under her lashes, her breath coming faster.

“Kiss me,”  Credence whispers, and Percy does.  The noise she makes as Percy presses her lips to her sex is obscene.  She goes slow, and her lips move lazily.  Credence has never felt anything quite like this.  Not when she slips her fingers beneath her underclothes at night, not even when she places a pillow between her legs and rides it to completion.  Percy’s tongue moves her to distraction, and her lips, oh Lord, her lips.  She kisses Credence, and consumes her.  Her sucking mouth is relentless.   

Credence moves her hips in desperation, riding, chasing that ledge she longs to fall over.  The noises Percy makes as Credence takes her pleasure.  The way she stares into Credence’s eyes, her mouth open, gaze lidded.  She sets fire to Credence’s bones, and nothing can put her out.  Percy’s insistent tongue pushes, desperate for her release.

Percy’s lashes flutter as she does something particularly creative with her tongue and a quick nip of teeth.  It has Credence’s eyes rolling back in her head, pushing her up onto her tip toes.  She shudders, feeling chills up and down her arms.  Her hand scrambles, tightening far too rough in Percy’s hair, but she doesn’t seem to mind.  Her mouth seals over Credence’s sex, and she doesn’t let her go, fingernails digging into her ass almost painfully.  Percy doesn’t breathe, doesn't pause in her ministrations.  Soon chills run over Credence’s skin, and she finds release again.

Percy never looks away from her as she pulls back, but Credence cannot help that her eyes trail down to her lips.   Percy’s mouth glistens, and Credence aches to taste her.  She stands, and Credence’s hands slip from her hair to her shoulders.  Half to keep her close, but also because her legs feel like pudding and she needs the support to stay upright.

“Did you enjoy that?”  Percy asks huskily, nosing at her neck, pressing kisses beneath her ear.

Credence opens and shuts her mouth a few times, but everything she comes up with seems weak in comparison to what just happened.  Percy pulls back to look at her with a fair amount of amusement.  Finally, she settles on,  “Enjoy, is an understatement.”

Percy hums, “I have been told that I’m good with my tongue.”

Credence raises her brows and nods in agreement.

The sound of the main building’s door opening and closing has Credence scrambling out of Percy’s arms, lunging for her scattered undergarments, gathering them up in her arms.

“Credence!”  Queenie calls out, still thankfully far away.  “Are you out here?”

Percy picks up her dress and brings it over to her.  “Nevermind your underthings, there’s no time for that.”  She takes the pile from Credence’s arms.  Holding her dress open for her, she helps her into it, turning her around and quickly buttoning up the back.

“Newt says she saw you out here with Lady Graves.  Come now, Credence, I’m sorry for leaving you alone, I promise to make it up to you!”

Credence knows her hair is a lost cause, but she tries anyway, gathering up most of the lost pins.  Graves helps her tuck and pin her hair back into a semblance of order.  Just as Percy inserts the final pin and takes a step back, Queenie pushes aside a curtain.

“There you are!  I was wondering where you ran off to,”  she smiles apologetically, before her expression puzzles,  “What are you two doing?”

“Lady Graves... was just… uh... showing me her studio,”   Credence sputters, tripping over her words.

“Hmm,”  Queenie hums, crossing her arms over her chest.  For some reason, she gives Percy a stern look,  “Come, Credence, the carriage is waiting outside.”

“Alright, just give me a second.”  She must be imagining the wink Queenie sends her, before stepping back outside.

“When can I see you again?”  Percy whispers hurriedly, holding both her hands between them.  “I would really like to see you again.”

Credence bites her bottom lip to stop from grinning embarrassingly.  She tells Percy her address, then says,  “Come anytime, I’m always in the shop.”

“You should let me take you out for dinner,”  Percy says, looking up at her from beneath her lashes.

“I’d like that.”  Credence blushes, ducking her head.  A pin falls out of her hair, clinking on the floor.  “I’d better go before my hair falls apart.”  She steps away, but Percy calls out to her and she stops.

Percy’s hand settles on her waist, and she whispers in her ear,  “Maybe then I could help you back into your drawers.”

She bites her bottom lip and nods her head.  “Goodnight, Percy.”

“Until we meet again, Credence.”

“Where are your gloves?”  Queenie asks, a little while later as they sit in the carriage, a knowing twinkle in her eyes.

Credence blushes, feeling yet another pin pop out of her hair and tumble down her back.  Percy is really not familiar with the intricacies of women’s hair, considering the cut she chooses to wear, it’s no wonder why.

“I must have forgotten them back at the folly,”  she says, tucking her hands into the folds of her dress.

Queenie giggles.  “All the more reason for you to go back, I suppose.”

Credence looks out the window, at the streets flying past, the lamps glowing vibrant and bright.  Percy’s house is but a speck in the distance.  “Yes, I do hope so.”

**Author's Note:**

> I might continue this if I feel inspired. If you’re interested, subscribe, but as it is, it can be read as a oneshot.
> 
> Tell me what you think, leave a comment, I usually never share my 'you've been lesbianed' fics, so I'd love to know what people think of it!


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